Den of Renegades

Patrick Bladek

Published At:2017-08-10 23:58:40

“Brandy for everyone, then.”
Mr. Davison (“Jonathan” to his wife and hundred or so of his closest friends) snapped the fingers of his left hand in a display of accomplishment, showing that he had succeeded in his New Year’s resolution of attaining ambidexterity. And...

<p>“Brandy for everyone, then.”</p>
<p>Mr. Davison (“Jonathan” to his wife and hundred or so of his closest friends) snapped the fingers of his left hand in a display of accomplishment, showing that he had succeeded in his New Year’s resolution of attaining ambidexterity. And it was only July.</p>
<p>Ian Turner strafed off to the side of the kitchen, breaking a sweat in no time at all as he realized the sheer awkwardness of his prancing. He was set to turn Elena Davison into Mrs. Elena Turner, and yet for the life of him could not learn to walk with confidence in front of the top brass. A mama’s boy of twenty-eight was hopelessly out of place in a summer cottage at the edge of Northbrook: a fitting locale for intense Texas hold’em on a Friday evening. Ian was not even fit to be a barman, so naturally he stumbled around at the bar in search of a bottle of Calvados – not that he would have any idea how to open it. Of course, there was none to be found. He settled for a half-empty Pisco and headed back to the poker table. It was only upon placing the bottle in the centre that he realized no one had a single glass. He bounced back and ran off to the cupboard. “Any day now, junior!” guffawed Victor Griffiths, whose bushy white eyebrows tensed up as he laughed like a drunken hog. Problem being, he was sober.</p>
<p>“Ha-ha, right,” muttered Ian. Of course, as much as he would have liked to feel like one of the guys, he was painfully aware that the span of an entire generation separated him from that honour. In the 1950s, he would have been the little brother of the right fielder of the local baseball team, just hanging on the side- lines and barely accepted because of family ties. He should have considered himself lucky, as he had somehow managed to worm his way into the Davison family on his own. Rather, he was lucky; Jon Davison had come across the scraggly college kid himself, discovering the latest talent at a run-of-the-mill university job fair. What’s-his-face was a completely undistinguished business student without nearly enough copies of his résumé – his excuse being that he was short on the printer money loaded on to his account. That average Joe without even a blazer on had timidly presented a CV to the President of Northbrook Solutions, LLC, when he heard the words: the offer of an opportunity. Just like that, Ian found himself before a dais of three old was...